


Uther's Night Conversations

by Piscaria



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You see her in your dreams each night. You try to make her understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uther's Night Conversations

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ночные беседы Утера Пендрагона](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374849) by [krasnoe_solnishko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krasnoe_solnishko/pseuds/krasnoe_solnishko)



You see her at night, when the castle is dark. Igraine, wan and pale as the day she died, though small and slender in your dreams, belly not yet swollen with pregnancy. Igraine, still young – younger now, you shudder to think, than Arthur. How much she would love him, this son you made together. You wish that you could love him half as much, could look at him without seeing (even still) the marble stone that walls her tomb in the catacombs below Camelot. You ordered your own tomb the day she died – sometimes you imagine the empty space beside her waiting for you.

"Come to bed, Uther," she used to say when the kingdom's business kept you up to late, raising up on one elbow and pulling the red coverlet down in invitation You wonder if she'll greet you so when you join her in the grave, or if, in the afterlife, her face will wear the same recriminations you see every night in your dreams.

"I did it for you," you say hollowly.

In life, she would have listened, argued, maybe, but death has not been kind to Igraine: she sits as a stone, impassive, resolute. Justifications fly from your throat to whirl in a dark-winged cloud around her head, cawing out in anger and regret. If you could only make her understand how stricken and raw her death left you, your only source of solace the meaty strike of an axe or the acrid ignition of a pyre.

"I only ever did it for you."

If she would only understand – could she, a woman as gentle as Igraine, understand the drive for revenge? – then maybe, at last, she'd forgive you.

"I do it for you," you always say, but that isn't especially true today.

Today, you did it – though it pains you to admit it – for Arthur, for the ill-placed affection he shows towards his blasted manservant, who fooled him – fooled you! – until another's treachery forced him to admit his own. This new sorceress was more subtle than the others, slipping into the ranks of Camelot's maidservants and biding her time, unremarked upon and unremarkable in her simple shift, apron and headwrap, until she earned the chance to wait on the high table.

In hindsight, you should have recognized her smile as she set tureen of soup before you – it was as cold and calculating as a cobra's eyes before it strikes.

"Try the soup father," Arthur had urged, "it's the boar that Gawain and I killed yesterday afternoon."

Behind Arthur's back, you catch sight of his manservant, Merlin, rolling his eyes, though of course, such details are as far beneath your notice as an anthill is to a mountain. You must admit, though, that Arthur has been very – thorough – in his boastings of the hunt. However, before your own manservant has even touched a ladle to its surface, the soup explodes, bursting outwards in a violent release of energy.

Merlin had caught your attention with his eye-rolling earlier – otherwise, you'd never have noticed those same eyes going molten at the same instant the soup, blisteringly hot, froze in place before splattering Arthur. The droplets fell, burning through the oak table with gut-wrenching ease to pool, steaming, on the stone floor below, and your orders fell only a second later, burning just as furiously.

"Seize her!" you cried, though the knights had already turned in pursuit – your gaze locked with Merlin's for a long, ugly moment, and your mouth curled into a sneer.

"We are fortunate that the witch was stopped," you continue, "but it was clearly done with magic. Guards, seize this traitorous servant!"

You glared at Merlin a second longer before pointing beyond him to your own manservant; Thomas is his name, he's been with you for thirty years. He has served you since he was a boy not much older than Merlin, he has served you through your marriage with Igraine and Arthur's birth, he has served you through your long and lonely kingship, and he will serve you now, for he is faultlessly loyal.

"Father!" Arthur shouted, rising to his feet, "You can't be serious! How do you even know it was him?"

"I saw his eyes flash gold," you said calmly, "It's a sign of magic that you must learn to recognize."

"But he saved my life, father!"

"At the expense of his own," you snapped, "I consider it a worthy trade."

Thomas watched you with wide, troubled eyes; of course, he has no magic (and from the look on his face, he knows you understand that). But he was born to serve the crown, and he's sworn to surrender his life for you.

"I've done nothing," he said softly, "but what my loyalty to Your Majesty required."

You bowed your head regretfully, but Merlin, damn him, spoke.

"It wasn't him," he protested, stepping clumsily forward, all gangly limbs and threadbare clothes, and guileless eyes, now safely blue. "I'm so sorry, Arthur, I should have told you earlier, but Your Majesty, please understand that I'm the sorcerer, not Thomas – I used magic to save Arthur's life, not him."

"Silence!" you shouted, and you'd been angry before – angry when the witch dared to attack your son, angry when Merlin let his magic slip, and angrier still with yourself for failing to notice it earlier – but now you were furious. Merlin shrank visibly at the rage in your voice, and though Arthur's jaw still hung open almost comically after Merlin's fumbling, heart-felt confession, your shout seemed to spur his shocked stillness into action – squaring his shoulders, Arthur stepped in front of Merlin, shielding his servant's skinny body with his own.

"Father, there's no way Merlin's a sorcerer, he can barely walk in a straight line," Arthur spoke up.

Merlin looked uncertain whether to be touched or indignant, and with a worming sense of unease, you realized that – had you not seen the evidence yourself – you would find the boy's confession as unbelievable as Arthur did.

"I will hear no arguments on what I've witnessed with my own eyes," you said, cutting off Arthur. Bile rose up, harsh and bitter in your throat, but you forced it down, keeping your voice steady as you said, "Thomas, son of Aled, you are guilty of treason."

His silence spoke louder than a recrimination as the guards stepped forward to grasp him by the arms. You remembered his deft fingers patiently fastening your boots that morning. The soap he'd brushed to a lather on your face had smelled of pine, cleansing and astringent – you had trusted him with your life as he shaved you every morning.

"This punishment may seem unduly harsh given the circumstances," you said, letting your voice carry to reach the far corners of the hall. "But in time, you will understand that I act for the good of Camelot." You meet Merlin's gaze, and let your hand fall onto Arthur's shoulder.

"The only thing that matters is protecting this kingdom," you said, lying through your teeth, because of course it's Arthur who matters in this instance, Arthur you're protecting. Merlin is a sorcerer, yes, but he's a loyal one, and you've learned all too well in the years since Igraine's death that sometimes fire must be met with fire, and treachery answered with treachery. Merlin will protect your son because, like Thomas, he's loyal to a fault, and you kept your gaze locked with his as you spoke your final words. "I will do anything, take any path necessary, to see that this kingdom and its people do not come to harm."

Merlin's face is angry, but he inclined his chin a fraction of an inch to show that he understood.

But in your dreams, Igraine sits impassively, refusing to be moved by the same arguments. "I did it for you, for the son you bore!" you plead with her, trying to make her understand.

Perhaps, in time, she'll forgive you for letting a sorcerer walk free while an innocent man died in his place. Perhaps, in time, you'll forgive yourself.

Finis


End file.
